Lord Palmerston looked at him intently. ‘I am relieved to hear it. It would not serve to have a soldier killed by the Spaniards. It would give rise to a very proper indignation.’ He rose.
The rest of the party followed, Hervey wondering where might be this indignation (the death of a soldier was not usually cause for much notice).
‘On the basis of what you have informed me, Major Hervey, I shall issue instructions to rescind the convening order for general court martial.’
Hervey bowed. ‘I am very much obliged, Lord Palmerston.’
‘Very well, I hope there may be opportunity to speak further with you on the situation in Portugal, but for the present I bid you good evening.’
Hervey bowed again. ‘Goodnight, Lord Palmerston.’
Lord John Howard motioned him to wait as he accompanied the Secretary at War to his carriage.
When he returned it was with a distinctly breezy air. ‘Hervey, it is uncommonly good to see you! What an affair it has all been; I was very glad to have your account of it. Norris has been writing in vitriol. But he’s a fool. He doesn’t understand there could be communication other than official.’
‘But he was the Duke of Wellington’s man,’ replied Hervey, eyebrows raised. ‘It is very strange.’
‘I cannot explain it, but so is Sir William Clinton the duke’s man. And his despatches have not been favourable in regard to Norris’s mission, I assure you.’
Hervey accepted a second glass of champagne, though his stomach was very empty.
‘In truth, the Duke of York was vexed by the whole enterprise. He was set against sending troops in the first instance, as at heart was the Duke of Wellington.’
‘The duke will be commander-in-chief ?’
Howard raised his hands. ‘There are all sorts of rumours. The King is supposed to be of a mind that he himself should be, or failing that the Duke of Cambridge.’
Hervey’s jaw dropped.
‘I know, the notion is absurd. They are rumours, that is all. Nothing is decided.’
‘But how, then, may Palmerston give instructions to the Horse Guards in respect of me?’
Howard sat back. ‘Ah, perhaps I should have explained. Until the King appoints a new commander-in-chief, the Secretary at War assumes the position.’
‘That is very singular.’
‘Yes. I think no one was more surprised to discover it than Palmerston himself.’ He smiled. ‘But he is greatly diverted by it.’
‘I am only surprised he should be acquainted with so trivial a thing as a major’s court martial, let alone that he should presume to act so decidedly in the matter.’
‘Oh, I would not say it was trivial, not in the circumstances – sending troops to Lisbon, I mean. Palmerston works prodigiously hard, too, for all his casual air. And The Times has it, of course. Portugal is of great moment, indeed.’ He smiled again. ‘Nor would I underestimate the influence of Lady Katherine Greville.’
Hervey shifted uncomfortably. ‘Just so.’ He wondered who else Kat had written to. These things could not always work to his advantage.
‘And I think, in a month or so, when we are coming out of mourning, I shall ask you to dine here with Palmerston. He may have no prospects in government, but I would not say he will be without influence.’
Hervey nodded politely. He would not be too fastidious if it were to bring him a little favour. ‘If Palmerston does rescind the convening order, shall that decision be final do you think?’
Lord John Howard pondered the question. ‘The warrant bore the late Duke’s signature: he insisted on signing everything to the last, as if to show he retained his faculties. The adjutant-general had already ordered the warrant be held in abeyance until the new commander-in-chief took office. If it is Wellington, I think you may be assured you will have heard the last of it. If it is Cambridge, then I believe the warrant might go forward, for he would not likely contradict his late brother. There again, if Palmerston dismisses the charges quickly, then I do not see by what instrument they could come before the Duke.’ He sat forward again, as if to reassure. ‘But it would be by no means certain that a prosecution would succeed. Not from the papers which I have seen.’
‘The humiliation would be the same!’
‘Oh, come, Hervey! Half the country, at least, would consider you hero! Does, I should say.’
Hervey started. ‘What do you mean?’
Howard saw that he had presumed too much. ‘Then you have not seen The Times?’
‘No!’
‘Two days ago.’
‘Did it say I was made prisoner?’
‘Yes.’
Hervey sprang up. ‘I must send an express. May I do so from here?’
‘Of course. To where?’
‘To Wiltshire, naturally!’
At breakfast the following morning, Hervey received a message from Lieutenant-General Lord George Irvine, colonel of the 6th Light Dragoons, wishing him to call at once at Berkeley Square. He therefore adjourned his scrutiny of the morning newspapers to the United Service’s hairdresser, and an hour later, at ten-thirty, presented himself at Lord George’s London house, expecting censure and worse, and an invitation to contemplate service in another corps. In his choppy progress to Gravesend, and his cold but more agreeable one to London, he had not thought of this possibility, that his own colonel would request his resignation. He should have, and as he walked to Berkeley Square he could not imagine why he had not, for although the most public humiliation would come from the Horse Guards, even official absolution from that quarter might not be enough as far as regimental propriety was concerned. He had not imagined that Lord George Irvine would know of matters at this time, but he ought to have, for as soon as a convening order for a court martial was signed the business would have been as good as gazetted. He believed that Lord George held him in high regard: Spain and Portugal, and then Waterloo, were trials not shared by many. But the colonel of a regiment could afford no excess of sentiment, and only a very little favouritism.
Hervey pulled at the bell, resolutely. He was grateful that he did not have to knock, for it would have sounded all too much like the fateful summons.
He had to wait several minutes, which he did with perfect patience, if not ease, before a footman opened the door (it was morning, after all, when footmen had other duties but to wait to receive visitors). But the delay proved a happy one, for when he was at last admitted, Lord George Irvine was standing at the door of his library, and the warm delight in his expression told him at once that whatever might be required of him it would be with the greatest civility.
‘My dear Hervey! How very good it is to see you!’ he called, advancing with his hand held out.
Hervey bowed as he took it. ‘Good morning, Colonel.’
A footman removed his surcoat, and Lord George ushered him into his library. ‘It’s deuced cold, Hervey; as bad as anything I recall in Spain. Sit ye down by that fire. We shall have coffee directly.’
The bookshelves were extensive, there were portraits of Lord George’s long ancestry on the fashionably striped walls, and the furniture was both practical and elegant. Here, Hervey saw, was the library of a man of affairs and of society, a senior lieutenant-general, and a member of parliament. Above all, however, Lord George was paterfamilias of the 6th Light Dragoons, and he still looked the active cavalryman – lean, vigorous, strong. Hervey was warmed as much by his hale manner as by the fire beneath the graceful carrera chimneypiece – as if he were at home in Wiltshire. It had been quite five times colder in Spain on more occasions than he cared to remember, but Lord George’s cheery dismissal of the memory of those days seemed to speak volumes for his disposition towards him now. Nevertheless, he took his seat near the flames with some apprehension, as well as gratitude: it was still deuced cold out (exactly as he had told Johnson that it would be).